Modern Renaissance
by Tokyo Sunset
Summary: It had been over a month since the Christmas party. The weight of the real work was settling in; paperwork, commuting, the dour expressions upon people's faces. A chill in the air that bit the face, and made each breath feel like swallowing toothpaste. Doom and gloom of the battlefield was replaced by the general gloom of everyday, boring life. Resolutions were broken, unwanted gif


It had been over a month since the Christmas party. The weight of the real work was settling in; paperwork, commuting, the dour expressions upon people's faces. A chill in the air that bit the face, and made each breath feel like swallowing toothpaste. Doom and gloom of the battlefield was replaced by the general gloom of everyday, boring life. Resolutions were broken, unwanted gifts returned, and with every passing day the shame of still partaking in the mundane was settling deeper.

Pauling never cared for resolutions. They were never fulfilled anyway. Except for the last one; she wanted to tell the Spy how she really felt. The resolution never made it to January, however. It broke out of her mouth during the RED's Christmas party, fuelled by nerves, lust, and copious amounts of rum and Coca Cola.

Standing there in her lavender dress, too revealing for an office party if not for the blazer she decided to wear over it last-minute, she shouted her devotion over a jaunty Christmas tune. Slurred speech did not distort the message she gave.

"I like you!" With a flourish, she spilled some of her drink on the ground, and looked at her feet. There were about three pairs of eyes on her, including the Spy's. "I… I really like you."

That was where it ended. She stood there in silence, all eyes staring at her. With a stone lodged between her lungs, she put the remainder of her drink down on the table and went outside, home.

Nobody had mentioned it – to her, at least. The Spy continued his gentlemanly office-appropriate greetings, Helen did not have a single comment to give apart from a giant stack of paperwork, and the other mercenaries were kind enough to stop gossiping once she entered the room. That did not make her feel any better.

And now, standing just three feet away from him, hugging the clipboard next to her chest like a security blanket, she felt the bile of rum and Coca Cola creep up her throat. He looked at her and pulled a grin – a tight-lipped, contained, static sort of grin you would flash people you were about to push through in a busy train station, or a colleague you did not particularly like. That chagrined grimace told her everything she needed to know. He could have been suave and debonair in his element, but just the two of them, in this narrow little hallway…

It was awkward.

It was the last thing Pauling wanted it to be.

"Uh," she spoke before he did. He looked onto her, expecting a continuation of her sentence. She didn't have it.

"I believe the Administrator is keeping you very busy these days, _non_?"

What was that? A subtle invitation to leave him alone? Small talk? Genuine interest? Her polished Mary-Janes were glued to the creaky hardwood floors. She lubricated her throat with a forceful swallow.

"Yeah," she said and bowed her head down. "It's to catch up on all the Intel coding we didn't have a chance to do during, er, Christmas."

It was the truth, but she regretted saying it. He was reminded of the scene and the party, she could have seen it in his eyes. They sparked briefly and then faltered, failing to the side.

"Look, Mademoiselle Pauling, it's futile to evade the topic any longer. I should have perhaps addressed it sooner, but seeing that we were never alone… too many gossips about, you understand."

Pauling gave an imperceptible nod. Of course, she thought to herself. The Spy's reputation had been tarnished enough. Her body tingled, especially up her forearms and between her eyes; the sensation she had seconds before crying. Yet she wasn't sad, she was mortified. Taking in a soft breath, she caught the lingering richness of his cologne. It made her knees weaken as she leaned against the wall for support.

And in a moment the Spy was closer to her, one hand next to her head, palm flat against the wallpaper. His gaze bore into her eyes, and he observed her hurried breathing.

"What," he said softly, "do you admire in me so?"

Her lips parted; she could feel her skin tingle. Their bodies were apart, yet she could still feel his warmth. Realizing there was only a clipboard between them, she lowered it from her chest to her side, where it dangled precariously in her limp grasp.

"There's," she attempted a laugh, "that's not so easy to explain."

"_Try_."

Pauling felt her body work against her. All she could look at were the contours of his balaclava, imagining the sharp facial structure, the stubble he most likely had, the wrinkles about the eyes which gave him sternness and dignity. He had never been this close to her before, so she never imagined him as intimately. She closed her eyes to focus.

"You make everything look so easy." She swallowed a node in her throat. His cologne was sandalwood and thyme. His suit was cashmere and soft against her legs. "I could look at you all day. When I look for men in the Lonely Hearts ads I always hope they're a bit like you… I know that sounds so sad."

"It's alright," he said and brushed away a stray lock of raven hair behind her ear. It was some miracle of God that she didn't faint in his arms. "But you have to understand, it's difficult. We are colleagues, you are the shadow of my employer. It cannot be anything beyond this instant."

She shuddered, and her tongue spoke in place of her mind. "Then let's have this moment then. If it's everything we're going to have, I want to…" Not thinking, she grabbed a fistful of his suit. It was softer than her aunt's cat's fur, and looked more expensive than her annual rent. Realising it, she tentatively opened her eyes, tears pricking at her sides. "I'm sorry… you must take me for such a fool."

He observed her bright emeralds, and for a second she was terrified of his reply. Yet all he said was "_non_". Then, with all the tenderness he could muster, he grabbed the sides of her cat-eyed glasses and ever-so-gently pulled them against the slope of her ears. Pulling them out, he bent them in place, putting them in Pauling's free arm. Her manicured fingers curled around them as if they were a sacred relic. Without her glasses, she could still see him clearly, but the room about them obtained a mystic, dreamy dusk which.

"You're no fool, Miss Pauling." He said and cradled the sides of her face. "My mother told me never to kiss a fool."

When their lips met, time slowed down. All was still, even the air, even their breaths. Her glasses remained in her grasp, but the clipboard fell to the side, thudding loudly against the floor just as Pauling's eyelids dropped completely. Joy and relief coursed through her arms in waves, and a soft, cotton-like warmth cooked within her heart. His lips parted and gathered more gently than she would have imagined, his tongue non-existent for now. He crooked his head to the side; there was no pace to his kissing, only pure sensations.

It had been a warm, soft, wet sort of kiss and for a second Pauling's mind wandered. She saw patterns and frescos in her vision, interloping clouds and repeating mosaics, colourful and dusky spirals blending into each other. For a moment, she seemed transformed, transported from her body and onto a higher state, and once she descended gently on the ground, she was met with a more beautiful sight that all those images flashing through her mind. The Spy's icy-blue eyes, softened by the experience.

She had never been an eloquent woman, but at that moment, there was only one thing she wanted to say. In a warm, factual tone of voice, she managed:

"Wow."

She had never seen the Spy smile like that – at her – before. In a moment, they connected again.

Perhaps this would really be the one moment they could do this. Perhaps, after settling their craving and getting back to work among the gossips, they would go back to their evasive looks, their chagrined grimaces, her stuttering and stammering in place of hellos. Yet there was an oddly comforting thought for Pauling as the Spy returned for a kiss, for the third time and the fourth time and the fifth.

She would see him again. They would be alone. And she would find herself painting frescos in her mind again.


End file.
